


The Denny's Napkin Incident

by HelenaHandbasket



Series: The Camping Series [3]
Category: Smallville
Genre: Humor, M/M, Quantum Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-07
Updated: 2003-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelenaHandbasket/pseuds/HelenaHandbasket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the stated Incident, Clark locks himself in the bathroom, and Lex does math.  Lots of math.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Denny's Napkin Incident

**Author's Note:**

> This story featured Dirac notation... But hopefully that won't deter you.

The Denny's Napkin Incident  
By Helena Handbasket

 

"You want whipped cream on that, hon?"

'Hell yes.' Although he was prudent enough not to voice it, the thought sprang to Lex's mind immediately as he sat gazing across the Formica table at Clark, who somehow managed to look sexy even when shoveling down pancakes smothered in dubious-looking canned blueberries. Lex did not feel particularly inclined to voice a prompt, genuine response to the question, so he feigned consideration and continued to watch his companion, his lips curled into a contented smile, until Clark looked up abruptly to see what was taking him so long to answer.

Lex immediately shifted his gaze to the waitress, whose Lee Press-on Nails were curled around a crusty can of Reddi Whip, tapping the aluminum with ever-increasing impatience. "No thank you," he said demurely. There was an implied "you can go away now" at the end of his statement.

As irritable as her ochre uniform was unflattering, the waitress snapped her gum and glared narrowly at both of them before rolling her eyes and clomping off, no doubt to adjust the chin strap that held her hair on straight. When she had gone, Lex offered a conspiratorial wink to his companion and looked down at his alleged Belgian waffle distastefully. He then came to the rapid conclusion that it was a lot more fun to look at Clark.

Having set off for a weekend of camping early that morning, they had timed their travel poorly, and managed to hit Metropolis precisely at rush hour. The slow traffic had been an irritation to be sure, but the ninety minutes they spent on the freeway had afforded Clark the opportunity to gawk at the skyline and ask Lex about the specific buildings that caught his eye. He had been particularly taken with a soaring tower towards the edge of the city, its tiered roof rife with abstract gargoyles that from that distance resembled starbursts of blackened stone. When Clark had finally managed to point out to Lex the building that had struck his fancy, Lex smiled complacently.

"That would be the Hotel Ganymede: the very first piece of property I ever acquired. I brought in a fantastic architect from Gotham to head the renovation team. I'm glad you approve of the outcome." He smiled at Clark, who blinked in astonishment, visibly impressed. Lex was mightily astonished himself at how unequivocally pleased he felt at Clark's reaction. "You know, Clark," he continued, "they keep the penthouse suite reserved for me there. It is quite spectacular, I must admit: west-facing cathedral windows for watching the sunset, a rooftop bonsai garden..." He paused, taking careful stock of Clark's facial expression. "I've even got a top-of-the-line telescope up there. No idea what the magnification is, but it's damn good. You could get lost in the Crab Nebula for hours."

Bingo. That had been the straw. Clark had stared at him mouth agape, practically salivating. God, how he loved that look. "But," Lex had added, slipping just a hint of mournfulness into his tone, "we'll have to save that for another time. This weekend's all about the wilderness, about rediscovering our primal selves, right?"

Clark had nodded in agreement, but cast a final, soulful look at the coveted penthouse as Lex sped onto the exit to Highway 70. "Hey," Clark had suggested, broaching the subject somewhat shyly, "think maybe we could check out that telescope sometime? You know, the next time you happen to have a free afternoon you'd be willing to allocate to a high school astronomy dork?"

"Anytime," Lex had responded, doing his best to stifle his triumphant smile. "You name it." He had also made a mental note to purchase a telescope at the earliest possible opportunity.

The conversation from there on out had been cheerful and amiable, if not particularly interesting. Clark had prattled on about television shows Lex had never heard of, excitedly relaying the soap-operatic circumstances that kept him and, apparently, the rest of Smallville High on the edge of their seats. In response, Lex had made derogatory but good-natured comments about the quality of the writing in the teen drama genre, speaking entirely from assumption of course, and put forth polite inquiries as to which characters in which shows were attractive or dynamic enough to merit his attention should he choose to tune in. Much to Lex's amusement, Clark had deflected his questions with an almost professional adeptness, offering vague, non-committal answers involving largely gender-inspecific character names. Lex's inquiries had been a test, of course: a casual effort to assess the combined effect of Clark's inherent sexual leanings, and his awareness of and/or comfort with Lex's own. He had not expected anything substantial to come of his little experiment, and was pleasantly surprised by the deliberate ambiguity of Clark's response. With a bemused smile, he had silently wondered whether Clark was testing him in return to see if he'd been bluffing his ignorance of the shows out of embarrassment. As it was, however, Lex had no idea. Left to his own devices, he had decided that Angel and Lindsay were almost certainly girls, but that Joey, Rory, Riley, and Pacey could possibly be boys; at least he hoped they were. The only obvious boy Clark had mentioned was Fred, but he didn't seem to like him much.

Eventually, however, they had crossed the state line into Colorado, and fallen into a companionable silence. Clark had apparently spent little, if any, time outside of Kansas, and his attention to the scenery was particularly rapt as the distant, snow-capped mountains hove into view. A few hours past the state line, they left the main highway in favor of US-24, which would lead them to Eleven Mile Canyon, where Lex's family had a substantial plot of land obtained at the turn of the century, mere weeks before the surrounding wilderness had been allocated to the National Forest Service. As their delay in Metropolis had made it impossible for them to arrive at their campsite by a reasonable lunch hour, Lex had elected to kill two birds with one stone, allaying both their hunger and their road-weariness with a respite for a late-morning breakfast. Now, looking skeptically down at his waffle, Lex was beginning to regret that decision.

At last glancing up from his pancakes and noticing Lex prodding his breakfast with overt dissatisfaction, Clark shifted awkwardly on the vinyl booth cushion and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry we couldn't find someplace better to eat," he offered.

"It's okay, Clark," replied Lex in a tone that vaguely chided the apology for even being offered. "I *am* capable of eating at Denny's, you know."

"Yeah," Clark shrugged, "but we still could have..."

"Clark," Lex broke in wearily, "you've got to remember: I wiled away the prurient midnights of my misspent youth roaming the streets of Metropolis looking for all-night diners. I've eaten in some of the seediest establishments in New York, L.A., Mexico City, Istanbul... and Istanbul is *really* seedy, let me tell you. I've even lived in New Haven, for Christ's sake. I think I can handle a Denny's breakfast without feeling too lowbrow."

"All I was saying," responded Clark quietly, eyes fixed on his pancakes, "is that it's much more of an adventure to find a little Ma and Pa truck stop. The food's a lot greasier, and they're not always up to code, but it's worth it for the atmosphere." He looked up at Lex for a few lingering moments, not smiling, and then returned to his breakfast.

'Well, fuck,' thought Lex. 'Smooth one.' He had been conditioned for so long, like a Pavlovian dog, to expect certain assumptions to be made about him. Little implicative comments, judgmental but with a hint of envy, had been bandied about him his entire life, whizzing from person to person like a badminton birdie. Lex's quick wit and implacable manner had become his racket, and he swung defensively, automatically - often before the first comment was even served because, frankly, those kind of assumptions really pissed him off. And now he'd turned around and backhanded those same assumptions - or rather the assumption of assumptions - directly at Clark, quite possibly the most unassuming person ever to walk the planet. Lex scowled at his waffle. What a jerk.

Pushing his plate aside, Lex poured himself another cup of coffee from the stained, bronze-tinted thermos the waitress had left on the table for them, and rolled the mug back and forth between his hands watching Clark, whose interest was now fully devoted to his pancakes. And out of the blue, it occurred to Lex to do something that he almost never did: apologize. It wasn't, of course, that Lex hadn't done anything wrong before - acted too rashly, or spoken before he had considered the ramifications of his words - but to find someone whom in his estimation was undeserving of the affront he had inadvertently doled out was a rarity. Clark's innocence, his utter lack of ulterior motives, his open mind, unhampered by the suspicions and taboo associated with the Luthor name were just so refreshing... and novel. It was as though Lex went through life wearing a scarlet L, and Clark was the only one who could see past it.

He cleared his throat, and Clark looked up from his breakfast, his second of the day, smiling. Apparently the sting of Lex's sharp tone had lingered on his own conscience longer than in the boy's thoughts. Nevertheless, "I'm sorry," he said.

Clark knitted his eyebrows and shrugged. "For what?"

"For forgetting myself and treating you like the people I usually get stuck spending time with." Lex laughed vacantly. "The people that automatically assume I think I'm to good for them."

"Funny," said Clark, "but that prospect didn't even occur to me. I guess life in Smallville hasn't prepared me very well for the etiquette of class distinctions."

Lex knew the comment had been intended to be mildly self-deprecating, but he didn't see it that way. "I know," he said earnestly. "You're better than that." Okay, so it was a line. A *cheesy* line. But oddly enough, he genuinely meant it. He smiled luxuriantly as he gazed at Clark, relishing the warmth and innocence exuded by the boy, as well as his own rarely experienced emotional authenticity.

Clark blushed under the intensity of Lex's gaze, dropping his eyes to the table, and fidgeted with his glass of milk. When he lifted it to his lips, the large napkin that was stuck to the bottom of the glass peeled free and floated down to settle on top of his pancakes, immediately absorbing the syrup and blueberry goo, and just generally making a big mess of things. Clark looked so embarrassed as he peremptorily removed his milk moustache with the back of his hand and looked up from the spectacle of his plate that Lex took pity on him and hid his smirk behind his steaming coffee cup.

And at that moment, as Clark daintily picked up the soiled napkin and deposited it on the butter dish, he seemed incredibly young in Lex's eyes. So quick to forgive: trusting and vulnerable. And Lex felt almost guilty for the fantasies and lusty scenarios he had been playing out in his head. Here was a fifteen-year-old boy who had saved his life more than once and, ironically, Lex found himself completely overwhelmed with the desire to protect him. Protect him from pain, from the world's cruelty, from the women who would scheme and plot and break his heart, from the scores of licentious individuals that would conspire to use him and throw him away, never realizing what a treasure he truly was... from people like him - or at least an aspect of him. Lex frowned and gazed absently out the window, barely wincing as he sipped at his coffee, which was so bitter it made him unconsciously scrape his tongue against his front teeth.

When his eyes flitted back to his breakfast companion, Lex couldn't help but smile. Clark, in the process of salvaging his pancakes, had methodically devoured the few remaining morsels without napkin bits stuck to them and managed to get a small but unmistakable smear of blueberry across the left side of his mouth. The endearingly Rockwellian scene before him stunned Lex into momentary indecision, his newfound nurturing and protective feelings towards Clark at war with the part of him that wanted to leap across the table and lick his face clean.

An instant later, Lex had acted without making the conscious decision to do so, and when he realized what he had done he was absolutely horrified.

"Oh god, Clark," he gasped as soon as his brain managed to grasp what he had done. "God, I'm so sorry." He slouched back against the booth and put a hand to his forehead in disbelief.

Clark was frowning. He looked perplexed and possibly hurt. "It's okay, Lex," he mumbled in a tone that in no way corroborated his statement. "It was just... unexpected. That's all."

Letting his hand slide down the length of his face and then drop perfunctorily to his side, Lex squeezed his eyes closed in silent self-beratement. What the hell was wrong with him? Twice over breakfast he had foregone his usual self-control, acting or speaking without thinking, and he was 0 for 2. Was it something about Clark that brought out these uncharacteristically careless actions in him, or had he unwittingly been wearing his idiot helmet all morning? His father was the only other person who seemed to be able to instigate this kind of rashness in him, but his feelings for Clark were pretty much the polar opposite of those he had for his father. Trite as it might seem, the difference was as obvious as love and hate, attraction and repulsion, nurturing and "just get the fuck out of my face and let me live my own life, you patronizing asshole."

Lex looked up at the sound of Clark clearing his throat and realized he had been muttering to himself under his breath. "Um... you about ready to go?" The surprise had faded from Clark's expression, but the hurt was still evident, thinly veiled behind an air of forced casualness.

With a thin smile, Lex nodded and grabbed his jacket, but Clark held up a finger to stop him.

"One sec," Clark said. "Lemme go visit the little boys' room."

"Sure," replied Lex with an absent shrug. "I'll get the check, and meet you out at the car." He frowned as he watched Clark trot, somewhat self-consciously, towards the back of the restaurant. Mind still brimming with self-loathing from the event that had just transpired, Lex extracted a few bills from his wallet, and tossed them down on the table before strolling half-dazed from the restaurant.

The cool air of the parking lot did little to clear his mind or dull the implications of his actions. Lex replayed the whole, gruesome, moronic scene in his head. He could picture Clark perfectly, beaming across the table at him with just a thumbprint-sized smear of purple at the side of his mouth. He remembered his eyes focusing in on the purple, sweet and sticky, within such easy reach and then... Fuck. He had done it. He had actually done it. He had dipped his fucking Denny's paper napkin into his fucking dingy Denny's water, and cleaned the fucking crap-ass Denny's blueberry syrup off of Clark Kent's perfectly-formed, baby-smooth, Narcissus-quality, jack-off-to twice a day, fucking beautiful face. Like his name was Martha fucking Kent. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Hard. He, Lex Luthor, scientific genius, cutthroat industrial magnate, playboy billionaire, and all-around feared-by-all hard-ass had inexplicably transmogrified into a mother hen. What in all that was holy or rich was this seemingly innocent fucking farm boy doing to him?

 

* * *

 

Clark picked up his pace once he had rounded the corner into the hallway that lead to the bathrooms, safely out of sight of the main dining room. He slipped into the men's room, thankfully a single-seater, locked the door behind him, and pouted at himself in the mirror for a moment before splashing some water on his face. That had sucked. That had *really* sucked. Lex... Lusty Lex... He of the Smoldering Glances had actually reached over and wiped syrup off of his face. Like he was his mom. Or a fussy aunt. The only thing that could have been worse would have been if he'd licked the napkin instead of dipping it in his water... only at least in that case there would have been some licking involved. It was possibly the single-most unsexual act he could conceive, and an event of such mind-boggling profundity that it had Clark questioning everything he had come to believe... at least everything Sex... er, Lex-related.

Piteously regarding his reflection in the mirror, Clark contemplated the question of the hour: had he been completely misinterpreting Lex's interest in him? He shook his head vigorously, chastising himself for leaping to conclusions in a single bound. That was Chloe's job. He had to reason this thing out logically.

First of all, there was cluelessness and then there was obliviousness. And while Clark would be the first to admit that he could be clueless on occasion, he was definitely *not* oblivious. After all, you could only go so long without noticing the way someone looks at you, the way his eyes slither across your body so unabashedly that you feel almost compelled to do a strip tease, the way his lips part slightly after he says your name, and how nobody else seems find themselves on the receiving end of that slow, sultry smile of his...

Again in need of cold water on his face, Clark wrenched the faucet, forgetting his own strength and tearing the handle from its fixture. Water sprang forth from the new rift in the plumbing, and Clark hurriedly forced it back with his palm while he felt beneath the sink for the valve that would block the flow to the faucet. Face and hair dripping, he inspected the damage, and was grateful to discover that there had been no rending of metal involved.

Of course, he considered as he leaned in to repair the faucet, his own responses to Lex's behavior had been even harder to ignore than the actions that had instigated them. Clueless or not, Clark could not help but acknowledge the stupid excuses he always seemed to find for dropping by the Luthor mansion, the fact that he spent more time in English class wondering about what Lex might be doing at that moment than listening to Mrs. Falk's rather tired and obvious interpretation of _The Ugly American_, and, most significantly, that the prospect of Lex fantasizing about him had become fantasy enough for Clark to sustain him for weeks on end. He frowned down at the newly mended handle, tightening and loosening it delicately before opening the valve beneath the sink. To his relief, he was spared another impromptu shower; the faucet appeared to be working again.

Clark now turned his attention to his own appearance, noting with dismay the way his hair had flattened itself to his head, with the exception of the few renegade tufts that had seceded in arbitrary, unflattering directions. He snatched several paper towels from the holder and began to rub his hair vigorously as his mind wandered back onto the topic of Lex. Even beyond his own behavior, the most difficult effect to ignore was the physical chemistry, so indescribably fervent that Clark often felt wholly overwhelmed. He shuddered at the mere thought of it as he looked at himself in the mirror, hair still mussed and chaotic, and imagined Lex's reflection standing next to him. Even the oblivious, he decided, would not have been able to disregard signs of that magnitude. You just can't ignore an attraction that intense: the incredible electric sensation of nearness, the way the air between you seems thick, almost magnetized, and how the hair follicles all over your body leap up in his presence, yearning towards him like sunflowers to the sun. There's just no way to deny something like that. Especially if you're fifteen and the whims of your hair follicles are nothing compared to what your dick does.

Frowning at himself, Clark gritted his teeth and wondered if it was possible he could have imagined it all. The physical attraction had been real, all right, but perhaps it had been one-sided. After all, Lex didn't have any hair follicles, so maybe he was immune to such influences. But what about those looks? Those hot, lingering looks? Could Clark have been reading desire out of innocent, brotherly affection all this time? Lex *had* once likened him to a younger brother, but Clark had been assuming - or rather fervently hoping - that that was some kind of regiospecific Metropolis euphemism.

Clark contemplated his reflection skeptically as a disturbing thought wormed its way into his mind. Maybe this was some kind of crappy rite of passage, like the standard way that Latent Homosexuality throws on its rainbow boa and tricks you into coming out: it waits until you meet someone really hot, really incredible - someone you could really fall for - and then starts feeding you hallucinations that he is hitting on you. And then when you get worked up into such a crazed, hormonal frenzy that you can finally accept the alleged turpitude and social stigma of an alternative lifestyle, because there's this gorgeous guy who wants you and you want him back, and it'll totally be worth facing up to all the prejudice and hate just to be able to writhe around on the satin sheets of his four poster bed and scream his name until it echoes across the cornfields... at that very moment, Latent Homosexuality shows up in a pair of leather pants with the butt cheeks cut out and says, "Ha, ha! He's straight! But aren't you glad you're you?" Well fuck you, Latent Homosexuality. Fuck you very much.

Clark took a deep breath, willing his racing mind to slow up a notch, and really, really hoping he hadn't inadvertently switched to thinking out loud. What if Lex had to go to the bathroom too, and he was waiting in the hall outside? What if he'd come back to apologize again and had arrived just in time to hear Clark yell, "Fuck you, Latent Homosexuality" through the bathroom door? He winced and swallowed his fear just enough to crack open the door and confirm that Lex was *not* outside, digging through his wallet to find his "Straight Men of America" membership card. Exhaling gratefully, he closed the door behind him again.

"All right, Clark, just settle down," he advised the mirror. Maybe he was overreacting to the whole napkin thing. After all, he wasn't the only one who had noticed a certain vibe between Lex and himself. Chloe remarked on it frequently. In fact, the one and only time she had met Lex, having walked in on their conversation in the Torch office, she had raised her eyebrows studiously at his farewell comments, and once he was safely out of earshot had sidled up to Clark, licked her finger, hissed it against his shoulder and said, "Sister, you are on *fire*." It was a remark that he had not particularly appreciated at the time, but was learning to look back on with a kind of practiced humor. Even Pete had taken to referring to Lex as "Clark's sugar-daddy," although Clark was fairly certain that his friend was not wholly cognizant of the implication of that term.

Clark took a deep, calming breath. Okay, so he wasn't crazy... at least not for certain. But there was still something unsettlingly unlusty about what had happened at breakfast. Maybe it meant that Lex wasn't attracted to him anymore - that is, if he ever was - or maybe it meant something else entirely, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. Maybe there was another dimension to Lex's feelings that Clark, and perhaps even Lex himself, had not previously suspected. Either way, Clark was going to have to push the envelope a bit if he wanted to figure out what was really going on inside that bald, unbelievably sexy head. He was definitely going to have to coax some information out of his wealthy friend, and he could only think of one way to do it.

 

* * *

 

In the parking lot, Lex looked at his watch with a frown, and wondered what the hell was taking Clark so long. He sighed and leaned back against the Ford Explorer, rubbing his temples gently. Several minutes of fresh air and concentrated introspection had served to clear his head of the initial panic that had accompanied the Napkin Incident. It was not so much the baring of his nurturing side that had gotten to him - after all, it wasn't as though he deemed himself above such things. There was still enough of his mother left in him that he believed himself capable of caring about another human being; the opportunity just hadn't happened to come up before. What had really unhinged him was that his behavior had been unpremeditated; losing control of his actions was one of the few things that Lex Luthor found truly frightening.

But what was done was done. Lex had erred, and he would learn from it as he always did, embracing the belief that each misstep made him ultimately stronger, more capable. The only task that remained was to analyze the potential consequences of his error and determine how, if at all, he ought to alter his strategy for getting closer to Clark.

Lex rolled his neck, still stiff from a long morning of driving, and leaned back to rest his head against the rear window. The grit that had accumulated on the glass during the drive was rough against his scalp, and he reconsidered his chosen headrest, bowing his head forward and brushing it clean briskly with the flat of his palm. He creased his brow and considered the game plan as it currently stood.

After lengthy deliberation, Lex had decided that this camping trip would provide the ideal playing field for what he hoped would be the final match-up between himself and all that was enigmatic in Clark. Perfect in every detail, this trip combined the venerated assets of isolation, a lack of diversions, the potential hardship of the elements and, most importantly, a healthy distance between Clark and his seemingly omnipresent parents. By cutting them off from all external influences, Lex would be able to ensure himself full control of the situation, leading Clark through an invisible maze that would allure and enlighten him, all the while guiding him to the final corridor in which he, Clark, would make the determined, deliberate, and entirely voluntary decision to seduce Lex Luthor. That is, of course, if he wasn't already planning to do so. That was the question, really: how far had Lex's machinations already pushed him?

Always acutely aware of his own actions and motivations, Lex knew exactly where he stood on the matter of Clark. He was intrigued by Clark: Fact. He saw something special in Clark: Fact. He wanted Clark as an ally, friend, companion, and lover: All of the above. Fact.

Naturally, Lex was also confident of the outcome. Clark would eventually be his in any and all capacities he so desired: Fact. With the strength of his own influence over people, it was as easy for Lex to read the future as it was his own mind.

Beginnings and endings were trivial to figure out: the tricky part was choosing which road to take in the meantime. Lex knew he had to select his strategy carefully or the whole situation could fall apart. And Lex was always careful, doing everything in his power to make sure that his fastidiousness counterbalanced the fragility of the circumstances. That's what made the future so easy to predict. He just didn't make the kind of thoughtless errors he had in the restaurant, which is why, he supposed, he was having so much trouble letting it go.

'Enough,' Lex reminded himself. 'It takes time, effort, and thought to bend the world to your whim. If you fuck up, you just have to accept the consequences and move on.' Lex scowled. And speaking of moving on, where the hell was Clark? He cast an irritated eye at the motionless door of the Denny's exit, and momentarily considered going in to fetch him before thinking better of it. No, it was preferable to let him be, give him time to work through his issues in peace. After all, nobody goes and locks himself in a men's room for ten minutes just for the sheer pleasure of it... well, at least not in the kind of men's rooms that were to be found in the backwoods Dennys' of U.S. Route 24.

Lex sauntered to the front of the car and reached in to grab his sunglasses off the dashboard. It was nearing midday, and the sun was blazing overhead, its brightness strangely contrasting the comfortable cool of the early spring air. Deciding that it might yet be awhile before Clark elected to emerge, Lex strolled back and opened the rear door, shoving the gear aside so he could sit down. He put on his sunglasses, although he barely needed them in the shade of the truck's hatch, and swung his legs up into the bed, bracing his feet high against the frame as he leaned back against the cushion of his thermal sleeping bag. If he was going to have to wait around all morning for Clark to pull himself together, he might as well get comfortable and use the time for a serious brainstorming session.

As Lex saw it, there were a number strategies open to him at this juncture, but choosing the right one was critically dependent on his analysis of Clark's current state of mind. Basically, there were three key variables: Clark's wanting of Lex, Clark's awareness of Clark's wanting of Lex, and Clark's awareness of Lex's wanting of Clark. As much if not more scientist than businessman at heart, Lex set up the variables in his head, visualizing the symbols and equations as if they lay in front of him in solid ink.

Now the first variable, call it Clark-&gt;Lex, he estimated to be hovering around an eight on the scale of one to ten, where one was total indifference and ten was unbridled lust. He had been monitoring the evolution this value since the day he and Clark had met and felt just confident enough in his assessment to assign it an error of roughly plus or minus two (which was still reasonably good considering that Lex-&gt;Clark was apt to vary anywhere between an eight and a ten depending on Lex's mood and Clark's hairstyle).

In other words, whether or not Clark was attracted to Lex was simply not a concern for him. Lex had an uncanny knack for perceiving the subconscious emotions of others - it was one of the reasons he was so good at quietly manipulating people - but his ability to objectively gauge their awareness of those emotions was not as finely honed. Hence Clark's awareness of his own interest in Lex, Clark?Clark-&gt;Lex, would be much trickier to quantify, as would be Clark?Lex-&gt;Clark which was, of course, tightly correlated.

In his extensive contemplation of the subject, Lex had been unable to assign a value to either Clark?Clark-&gt;Lex or Clark?Lex-&gt;Clark with any reasonable margin of error. As far as he could tell, each variable could be pretty much anywhere between two and nine. As such, they were useless in helping him make any decisions. On the other hand, with no fixed value, he could elect to turn them into unspecified Boolean variables - true or false, one or zero, with no grey area - and his entire strategy would be reduced to a trivial exercise in elementary game theory.

Bearing a somewhat bored expression as his brain labored to rearrange the format of his strategic analysis, Lex began absently rifling through the large ice chest he had been using as an arm rest. Everything appeared to be there: fruit, uncooked pasta, fresh pesto, a reasonably large selection of cheeses, crackers, jars of various antipasti... not exactly the typical camping fare but - hey - he was picky. And then there were the beverages: fruit juice, soda, milk for Clark, scotch, wine, a six pack of beer, gin, tonic, peppermint schnapps for the hot chocolate... So maybe he'd gone a bit overboard on the alcohol, particularly for an overnight trip, but Lex's oral fixation was one of his secret, guilty pleasures. He enjoyed having something to swirl around on his tongue at all times, and if that something wasn't going to be Clark it might as well be a decent drink.

Lex sighed, letting the lid of the ice chest fall closed with a dull thud, and returned to the mathematics of Kansas farm boys and the new variables he had created to efficiently represent Clark's thoughts. Shifting into a quantum mechanical formalism, he represented the values of the relevant variables as state vectors, |Clark?Clark-&gt;Lex, Clark?Lex-&gt;Clark&gt;, and accounted for all possible combinations.

 

|1,1&gt; \- Clark recognizes both Lex's desires and his own

|1,0&gt; \- Clark recognizes his own desires but not Lex's

|0,1&gt; \- Clark recognizes Lex's desires but not his own

|0,0&gt; \- Clark is utterly clueless

Ultimately, of course, Lex wanted to arrive at |1,1&gt;, thereby completing the game with both Clark and himself emerging the victors. However, the tantalizing nature of anticipation and process being what it was, the *pathway* to the goal was the key. Because Lex preferred to be the seduced rather than the seducer in the final stage of the game, he wished to arrive at |1,1&gt; via |1,0&gt; rather than |0,1&gt;. This would allow him to keep Clark guessing and hungry right up until the end. But in order to navigate that optimal path, he would need to understand the starting conditions, namely what Clark's mindset was at that very moment. The appropriate pathways for the possible starting conditions glided effortlessly through his mind.

SCENARIO A:  
|1,0&gt; -&gt; |1,1&gt;  
SCENARIO B: |0,0&gt; -&gt; |1,0&gt; -&gt; |1,1&gt;  
SCENARIO C: |0,1&gt; -&gt; |0,0&gt; -&gt; |1,0&gt; -&gt; |1,1&gt;

Of course, there was also the possibility of Scenario D, where they were already at |1,1&gt;, in which case he deemed it likely that Clark would jump him as soon as they made camp. Lex sincerely hoped this wasn't the case. If he was going to spend the weekend in the throes of unbridled passion, he would much rather be doing it in his penthouse in Metropolis, where there were rich foods, champagne, hot tubs, and a significantly reduced probability of winding up with a twig or rock stuck somewhere it didn't belong. No, he had planned this camping trip as chance for researching Clark: his sleeping habits, his more subtle mannerisms, how he responded to specific emotional stimuli... It would be a shame to waste the opportunity on a preview of his upcoming sex life. There would be plenty of time for that later.

Having worked out the possible scenarios, Lex derived an initial guess at the starting conditions based on his observations. Prior to the Napkin Incident, he estimated a probability of about 60% that Clark had come to grips with his own attraction to Lex (that morning's underwear remark had increased that percentage substantially) and a 25% chance that he had perceived Lex's intentions to be more than just platonic. That gave a total Clark Awareness Wave Function of:

|CLARK&gt;= A |1,0&gt; \+ B |0,0&gt; \+ C |0,1&gt; \+ D |1,1&gt;

Where the |CLARK&gt; coefficients could be determined by the individual probabilities of scenarios A, B, C, and D, given by 45%, 30%, 10%, and 15% respectively. That, at least roughly, had been what the situation looked like before breakfast. However, the Napkin Incident would have significantly altered the probability values for the states in which either or both of Clark's awareness values were equal to one. Values for which he had zero awareness would, of course, remain quantitatively unchanged.

Now, from Clark's perspective the Napkin Incident would substantially decrease his confidence in Lex's interest in him - say, by 75% - so

NAPKIN |n,1&gt; -&gt; .5 |n,1&gt; \+ (3/4)^.5 |n,0&gt;

Meanwhile, if Clark were aware of his own feelings, his certainty of them would have increased... roughly doubled, perhaps... in the face of non-reciprocation.

NAPKIN |1,n&gt; -&gt; 2 |1,n&gt;

So applying NAPKIN to |CLARK&gt; evaluated before breakfast should yield a new function, |CLARK'&gt; such that,

|CLARK'&gt; = NAPKIN |CLARK&gt;= 2A |1,0&gt; \+ B |0,0&gt; \+ C (.5 |0,1&gt; \+ (3/4)^.5 |0,0&gt;) + 2D(.5 |1,1&gt; \+ (3/4)^.5 |1,0&gt;)

Which naturally rearranged to provide the Clark Awareness Wave Function post-breakfast:

|CLARK'&gt;= [2A + (3/4)^.5] |1,0&gt; \+ [B + D 3^.5] |0,0&gt; \+ .5C |0,1&gt; \+ D |1,1&gt;

Lex knitted his brow while he worked through the probabilities: he hated trying to do this stuff his head. Squeezing his eyes closed, he tried to focus. _So solving for the original coefficients and renormalizing the entire function to unity yields a total probability distribution of... wait a minute. That can't be right._ Frowning, Lex fished around in his jacket and found his Palm Pilot, double checking his numbers on its built-in calculator. The figures still came out the same. Lex shook his head in amazement. According to his back-of-the-envelope calculation, there was now a 99% chance that Clark was firmly entrenched in Scenario A, where he was well aware of his attraction to Lex but was uncertain of whether Lex returned the compliment.

Nodding thoughtfully, Lex tucked his Palm Pilot back into his jacket and leaned back into the sleeping bag. If his calculations were correct, Clark was probably locked in the bathroom right now, stewing over the burning question of whether or not Lex was interested in him, and how to find out. He smiled, eminently pleased by the notion of Clark devoting that much time and energy to him... to *them*. So what was Clark's next move likely to be? Lips pursed in thought, Lex considered for a moment. Clark had essentially two options open to him: subtle inquiry (which, given Lex's ambiguous and occasionally guarded manner, could not be regarded as a viable strategy) and direct flirtation (it would have to be overt but unaggressive: obvious enough so as to produce a marked behavioral change, but nothing so rash as to be perceived as threatening).

The path was clear now: so simple and obvious that even a novice mathematician of human nature could easily follow it home. If Clark had a lick of sense about him, he would charge out of that Denny's men's room with his libido on his sleeve - and Lex had faith that his young friend would come to that same conclusion. He had a good enough sense of Clark's intelligence to know he would realize that flirtation was the only answer. Lex would counter this advance with a slight retreat, feigning obliviousness and forcing Clark further out into the open, at which point Clark would have to retaliate by a change in strategy, probably by switching from flirtation to inquiry. Lex's thoughtful frown broke into a smile as he realized the perfect plan for providing covert aid to Clark's perceived seduction of him. He patted the ice chest affectionately. It was all too perfect.

Lex grinned as the last few pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and his final gambit was solidified. He shook his head, marveling that only a few minutes ago he had been chastising himself for acting without thinking, concerned that it might have jeopardized his goal when, ironically, by means of the Napkin Incident Lex had unwittingly forced a quantum collapse of their relationship into its penultimate step, placing himself in perfect position for the endgame. He chuckled, wondering if perhaps he should act without thinking more often. Swinging his legs out of the truck, he stood up triumphantly and slammed the door closed.

With a self-satisfied flourish, Lex pushed his sunglasses up and glanced at his watch. There was still no sign of Clark, but only a few minutes had elapsed since Lex had begun the computations that so decisively determined the appropriate course of action. Of course, he reminded himself, this was all assuming his calculations turned out to be accurate. After all, there had been plenty of room for error, and Lex knew too well that the real world did not always conform to the dictates of probability.

Before Lex could continue the thought, however, Clark finally emerged into the parking lot. He looked confident, gorgeous, and completely transformed from the mopey, wound-licking teenager Lex had seen disappear into the restroom. An impossibly white smile blazed across his face, and he kept his eyes fixed on Lex as he approached.

"Good God," Lex muttered under his breath. Clark had removed his baggy sweatshirt to reveal a tight-fitting t-shirt that didn't just hug his biceps, it fucking sucked them. Lex exhaled and bit his lip sharply to prevent his tongue from lolling out, as prescribed by the subtlety clause in the Scenario A strategy. As happened on occasion, Lex found himself utterly awed by this incredible, sublimely sensual, beautiful man-child that now approached him. Clark was so gorgeous, so perfectly constructed that he could turn *any* man gay. He could even turn... Lex scoured his brain, trying to think of a movie star so macho it would be an impressive statement to say that Clark turned him gay but he came up empty. Fortunately, a better analogy came to him from the opposite side of the straight spectrum: he's so gorgeous that even Tom Cruise wouldn't *deny* having slept with him. Lex smirked at the thought, and ran through the Cruise-Kidman press conference in his head. "No, no, I'm not gay, really. Well, okay, but only with Clark."

"What are you grinning at?" Clark asked, eyebrow raised as he drew level with the truck and leaned against it, just inside the periphery of Lex's personal space.

Lex chuckled and leaned in secretively. "I'll tell you when you're older."

"You sound like my dad," Clark admonished.

"Hate to break it to you, kid, but I'm a much better dresser."

"Not today you're not," countered Clark, reaching out to tug at the sleeve of Lex's grey t-shirt. His hand lingered on the cloth unnaturally long and when he did finally, slowly draw his hand away, his fingers wandered beneath the t-shirt sleeve and brushed against Lex's bicep as they withdrew. It was one of those gestures that was so deliberate in its pretense of being accidental that it was doubly obvious, and the uncharacteristic brashness of it delighted Lex to no end.

"But it's cool," Clark added, dropping his eyes to take in the full effect of Lex's attire, and blushing hotly, as if his brain was only now becoming cognizant of his actions. "The t-shirt and jeans look actually suits you." He offered a small, unquestionably sultry smile before rolling around the side of the truck towards the passenger seat.

"Holy crap," Lex breathed, still conscious of the lingering heat of Clark's touch on his arm. "Chalk up another victory for probability theory." With a wicked grin, he trotted to the front of the truck and climbed in, registering but not outwardly reacting to the sight of Clark with his lips curled around a bottle of Ty-Nant. Clark's expected response to Scenario A was well underway.

Lex smiled as he torqued the wheel and pulled back onto US-24, immersing the gravel parking lot in a cloud of dust. He glanced sideways at Clark, who leaned against the window, brushing the rim of the blue bottle thoughtfully against his lower lip, and considered the horrible yet wonderful, oscillatory, and occasionally miraculous phenomenon that was his life.

While it wasn't anywhere near as glamorous as the plebeian women in the Metropolis check-out lines so often imagined, sometimes it was just fucking wonderful to be Lex Luthor.

 

End.


End file.
